


Ghosts

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Series: The Mouse and the Lion [2]
Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Complicated Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 11:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8842000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: Curt reaches for his lighter and his cigarettes before looking back at the kid sharing his bed. No, he thinks. Not ‘the kid’ - he has a name. Curt even remembers his name: Arthur. Arthur Stuart, the groupie Curt has kept in touch with since that night months ago when he took him home and fucked him. Good thing, too. Curt had taken Arthur’s number thinking he could use him as leverage when he needed to take a break from Brian or show some independence. He’d never expected to need Arthur like he did yesterday or whenever he crashed here.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mithrigil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrigil/gifts).



Curt opens his eyes, briefly, before shutting them again and gritting his teeth. His head is splitting. Worse, he’s not ready to be awake yet, and he’s definitely not ready for another day without Brian.

Then again, he’s not withdrawing, either; he has none of the chills or cramps that never, ever got any easier, no matter how many times he went through them. He moves his arm across the pillow, flexing his fingers to make sure that he’s all right. He _is_ , more or less, so he’ll take the hangover headache, even if it’s worse than it should be because of the pills he’d grabbed by the fistful to calm himself down. Still, he could have done much worse. After hearing about Brian? He could, and probably would, have done much, much worse, if he’d been alone.

A lump comes into his throat at the memories: Brian putting Jerry and studio time and money before Curt, Brian breaking it all off (or was that Curt’s fault?) that day when they were trying to record _My Unclean_. And then Brian _dead_.

Curt opens his eyes again. This time, he doesn’t close them, but sits up, ignoring the sick creeping feeling in his gut. He remembers this cramped bedroom with its faded wallpaper, remembers screaming, crying, smashing a couple ashtrays against the flower-papered walls in his grief, and maybe the TV, too, while he was at it. Then he remembers that the TV-smashing came later, after seeing Jerry on the news smugly and grandly announcing that it was all a hoax, that Brian was alive and fine and on some quest for artistic freedom or whatever the fuck. Asshole. Curt had never expected anything from Jerry. Brian, however, had no right to trick him like that, to _lie_ to him like that. It was unforgivable.

Of course, he’d expected too much of Brian, too.

He knows he’ll have to go back to the apartment Brian found for him months ago, and that probably still smells of Brian and still has some of his ridiculous stage costumes littering the floor, sequined scarves and feather catsuits and God knows what else he may have left behind. At the very least, Curt needs to see if he has any methadone left, or if he can find his London doctor’s number. He can’t go back to that place, though. His chest tightens just thinking about it. He knows he shouldn’t fall off the wagon or kill himself or become homeless over Brian, who doesn’t deserve it, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He can’t face that apartment. Not yet. It’s bad enough facing the fact that he’s lost Brian. Curt’s not sure what he’s lost him _to_ , whether he’s still alive and refusing to see Curt, or whether Jerry’s interview about the shooting being a hoax was some bizarre, drug-addled dream, but he’s lost Brian, all right. That’s the bottom line.

He reaches for his lighter and his cigarettes on the night table and lights a smoke before looking back at the kid sharing his bed. _No_ , he thinks. _Not ‘the kid’ - he has a name_. Curt even _remembers_ his name: Arthur. Arthur Stuart, the groupie Curt has kept in touch with since that night months ago when he took him home and fucked him. Good thing, too. Curt had taken Arthur’s number thinking he could use him as leverage when he needed to take a break from Brian or show some independence. He’d never expected to need Arthur like he did yesterday or whenever he crashed here. At least Arthur was there to listen to his ranting and hold his hand, embarrassing as that was. He remembers Arthur bringing him water and food when he was too out of it to get up, and thinks he felt Arthur checking his breathing when he was falling asleep, too, in case he’d taken something more dangerous than he had. He's not sure, though.

Maybe that's why Arthur looks so tired, fast asleep with his hair spread haphazardly over the pillow. Curt leans over to kiss him, then hesitates: he can’t remember when he last shaved or brushed his teeth. Instead he touches Arthur’s cheek. Arthur is sleeping too peacefully to notice. Curt watches his slow breathing, wondering for a moment if Arthur is also on something - Quaaludes, maybe. He must have been worried about Curt. Curt knows he wasn’t easy company to deal with, between grieving for Brian ( _not my problem anymore_ , he tells himself) and having no management and no future. His fingers tighten around his cigarette as he drags his smoke into his lungs.

He’ll have to thank Arthur when he wakes up. Arthur’s seen Curt at his lowest, or almost his lowest, and still hasn’t kicked him out. He could have: could have moved on to someone with potential and real hits in the works instead of babysitting a basket case like Curt Wild. He must really like Curt, or maybe he’s desperate, too - or Curt lucked out and found himself a caring sort of sucker.

But Curt’s more of a coward than he likes to admit. If he weren’t so desperate himself, he might leave right now, to avoid the humiliation of having to talk to Arthur or thank him. Then again, he can’t leave. Leaving would mean going back to the apartment that feels like a part of Brian and of Brian’s life instead of Curt’s own. Anyway, bailing would be a shitty thing to do to Arthur.

Curt stands up instead and tries not to think at all. To distract himself, he looks around at the posters and news clippings on the wall, a lot of stuff about the great Brian Slade and Curt Wild, which makes him wince, and even more about the Flaming Creatures. Belatedly, he remembers that Arthur’s supposed to be working for them in some capacity.

He makes his way out of the bedroom without waking Arthur and finds the bathroom down the hall. It’s tiny, with another one of those old lady-ish wallpapers that are apparently unavoidable in some parts of London. _Not as cool as Richmond_ , he thinks, remembering the arty area that Brian and Mandy had installed him in, and that he' left a day or two ago. _Whatever._ If he weren’t such a wreck, he might have smiled. At least he can clean himself up a bit and brush his teeth, old lady wallpaper or no. He probably owes Arthur that much.

Curt borrows one of the toothbrushes he finds by the sink, since it’s not like he packed his own. He didn’t even bring a change of clothes when he staggered out of his Richmond apartment to hail a cab after catching Arthur on the phone. He pushes the thought away, his stomach clenching, and tries to make his mind go blank again. It works long enough for him to brush his teeth, wash his face, and realize that Arthur must have a roommate. Thankfully, they haven’t been around to see Curt like this, whoever they are.

He’s doing a half-assed job of combing his hair when he hears footsteps outside the bathroom, and turns to Arthur.

“Hey,” Curt says, all bravado despite the pounding in his temples.

It’s not enough to fool Arthur, who frowns at Curt in that way that makes him look almost afraid. Curt clenches his jaw, unsure if Arthur’s afraid for him, or _of_ him. What the hell does Arthur think he’ll do? Then he remembers that he  _has_ been breaking shit around Arthur’s apartment. It made sense for him to do it, at the time, but it also makes sense for Arthur to be nervous now. Besides, Arthur might just be worried that Curt’s about to be sick or keel over or something. Brian used to look at him the same way sometimes, back when they were together and Curt could sponge off him.

Curt’s stomach grows cold, as if he’d swallowed ashes. He should ask about Brian - shouldn’t he? If he really did fake his death. If he's alive somewhere. Arthur should know; he’d been watching TV with Curt yesterday, when Jerry explained the hoax shooting. But that must have been real. Curt couldn’t make shit like that up, no matter what he was on. Brian's nightmarish betrayal and complete callousness must be all too real.

“You all right?” Arthur asks. His voice makes Curt start, despite how soft it is. _Of course I'm not_ , Curt thinks, trying to hide his reaction with a shrug.

“No,” he says, “but I’m better than I was. And I’ve been a lot worse.”

He waits for Arthur’s response. Arthur remains silent, looking mousy and cautious, with pursed lips and furrowed brows. Curt sighs.

“I’m - sobered up now,” he adds. “And I’m not gonna go out and score smack or anything.” _Not over Brian_ , he thinks. Maybe telling someone about his good intentions will help him to follow through. _Yeah right._

“Good,” Arthur murmurs. “Do you - um - need a doctor? I could call one…”

Curt bristles. He’d been sent to enough doctors when he was thirteen years old. No wonder he tries to avoid them all all costs now, except of course when he has woken up in hospitals after nearly choking on his own vomit or stopping his heart with an overdose. _Because dying isn't a fucking joke._ Brian’s little prank has reminded him of that fact, in gruesome detail.

“I’m fine,” he says, keeping his voice low so Arthur won’t hear it shaking.

Arthur draws a little closer to Curt, despite his obvious hesitation. _Nice kid_ , Curt thinks. He means well, which is more than Curt could say about a lot of his former drug buddies and groupies, and maybe even Brian himself. Curt can feel warmth and tenderness rising in him, driving away some of the cold and the nausea. Maybe he’ll take Arthur with him wherever he’ll go next, whether that’ll be back to New York or somewhere else in Europe. He’d happily steal Arthur from the Flaming Creatures if it means not being alone.

“Come here,” Curt says. He holds out his arms. Arthur steps into them, and they grip each other awkwardly, Curt trying to think of nothing but Arthur - the feeling of his hair brushing Curt's cheek and the taste of his mouth and the fabric of his clothes beneath Curt’s fingers. The apartment is cold; Arthur has pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater that looks like something a schoolgirl would have worn twenty years ago. It doesn’t matter. The sweater’s as warm and soft to Curt’s touch as Arthur's fingers are strong on his back. His cock stirs a little. He hasn't bothered with sex in days, which is pathetic. Maybe later, once he's sat down for a bit and had something to drink or a joint to smoke. He buries his face in Arthur's hair and can’t help remembering Brian and their rare moments alone together, just like this.

That ache deep in his throat returns. Curt hears himself hiss in annoyance.

“Are you okay?” Arthur asks again, pulling back to look at Curt.

Curt grits his teeth.

“Sure,” he lies, because being a sentimental mess isn’t sexy, and Brian's not worth it anyway. _Keep telling yourself that_.

“I just - Can we sit down and get a drink?” Curt asks. _Sponging off a kid of maybe eighteen, like I can't find a fucking glass by myself..._ “I mean, I’d do it, but I don’t know where anything is.”

“Fine,” Arthur says.

He stands still for a moment, then takes Curt’s hand. Curt smiles, despite everything, and lets Arthur lead him to the tiny kitchen where he collapses into a folding chair at the table.

“Do you want something to eat?” Arthur asks, hovering between Curt and the counter. “I haven’t done any shopping; there’s nothing but toast and jam.” He looks down and half-covers his face with one hand. “We’d be better off going out, if you want.”

“I don’t,” Curt says. He’s too tired to stand for very long, let alone go out on the town. “Just some fucking water is fine.”

Arthur hangs his head, and turns to the counter to look for something in the clutter. Curt can see him biting furiously on one fingernail, even when he finds a mug and runs it under the tap for a few seconds before offering it to Curt, who takes a deep drink.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur murmurs. Curt clenches his fingers around the mug, suddenly wondering if Arthur’s trying to get rid of him, like everyone does. It’s obvious that Curt can’t go out for breakfast or whatever meal this is supposed to be: he has no money on him. Arthur should know that.

“I can leave, if you want me to,” he snaps, but Arthur puts one hand on Curt’s and gives a small shake of his head.

“I don’t,” he says. “Really, I don’t. I’m just - ” He shrugs - “I’m out of everything.”

“I already said it’s _fine_.”

“All right,” Arthur replies, unable to meet Curt's gaze. Curt watches him look restlessly around the kitchen before his eyes settle on the coffee machine by the clock, which Curt hadn’t noticed before. At least coffee sounds like a good idea.

“Could you make some coffee?” Curt asks, harshly, before softening his tone. “Please.”

Arthur turns startled eyes on him. _Oh, for fuck’s sake,_ Curt thinks, _what now?_

“I don’t know how,” Arthur says. “I don’t drink coffee.”

Curt sighs again. “Then why the fuck - ”  

And then it hits him. He’d broken a couple ashtrays during those awful hours when he thought Brian was dead. It was totally understandable, and he’s glad he didn’t trash _more_ of the place than that. But Arthur doesn’t smoke cigarettes. Curt had offered him one weeks ago, during one of their hookups when Curt was still with Brian and Arthur was the sort of on the side fling they both enjoyed, either separately or together. Arthur had tried to smoke that one, harmless little cigarette and the result was pathetic, all coughing and spluttering and apologizing to Curt, who couldn’t help laughing. It was no problem - cigarettes were fucking expensive, as Curt had teased - but someone like Arthur didn’t need multiple ashtrays, did he? Or two toothbrushes, or a coffee machine that he couldn’t use. Besides, there was no money in being a homeless gay kid who got kicked out of his parents’ house - definitely not enough to afford an apartment like this one, even with its shitty old lady decor. Curt knows that. He was in that position once, and couldn’t have paid the rent on a nice place like this.

For the second time today, Curt’s mouth twitches into a smile. Arthur is still staring at him, wide-eyed, and looking very young and very confused. He can’t know _why_ Curt has gone from snarling to grinning in about ten seconds flat, but Curt knows. He _gets_ it now. Arthur’s not just working for the guys in the Flaming Creatures; he has to be sleeping and living with one of them. No roommate would be so generous unless he was getting something in return. That would explain everything. And it sheds new light on Arthur’s fidgeting and frowning, and his staring at the clock beside the coffee maker, instead of the other way around.

“Is he gonna walk in on us?” Curt asks. Arthur furrows his brow. Curt laughs at him, surprised and relieved that he can laugh at anything anymore.

“ _What_?” Arthur asks.

“Your boyfriend,” Curt says. He should have known. Arthur’s attractive and likable, for all he’s so damn awkward. Plenty of people would want him. “I assume you’re waiting for him to come back. Is he gonna walk in on us any minute?”

Arthur’s cheeks turn beet red. Curt tries to pull him close, to kiss him, but Arthur hangs his head and shies away from the touch.

“No,” he murmurs. “Don’t worry about it…”

“Good, ‘cause if your boyfriend _has_ to walk in on us, I want to be balls-deep inside you when he does.”

The redness creeps up to Arthur’s ears. Curt’s not sure why: this is the funniest thing that’s happened to him, or rather to them, in days. _He’s_ not mad, or jealous.

“I think I’d die if that happened,” Arthur says. He sounds so scared that it wipes the grin right off Curt’s face. _Doesn’t need ashtrays or coffee - or some has-been living in his boyfriend’s apartment._ Suddenly he’s conscious of a second specter standing ghost-like between himself and Arthur in the cramped room - Malcolm or whoever Arthur’s with, as well as Brian and the grip he still has on Curt.  _Just great_ , Curt thinks, sobering. He wonders if Arthur would go with him now, or if he’s in love with his current partner.

“Okay,” Curt says, through the lump that has returned to his throat. He smokes the last of the cigarette he’s been nursing. "I can leave whenever you need me to."

But Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t want you to.” He hesitates before going on. “The problem is they’re - the Flaming Creatures, I mean - they’re playing the Oxford Town Hall tonight, in a few hours, really, and it's a pretty big thing. I know they’ll be pissed off that I’ve missed so much of the tour.” He pauses to worry at his lower lip. “He - They haven’t called me, though. No one’s called since you did, and I don’t know if the band’s going to keep me on.”

 _Shit_ , Curt thinks. He hadn’t realized that calling Arthur might cost him, too.

“Sit down,” he says, and pulls out a second chair for Arthur. Arthur accepts it, then stares down at the table.

“It’s only been a couple days,” Curt adds, trying to sound reassuring. It’s weird for him to be comforting Arthur, yet here he is. _It’s not a big deal,_ he tells himself. _This is a problem so small even_ I _can help._ “If you have to, can’t you get on a bus to Oxford and meet them?” He grins again, weaker than before. “I’ll write you a fucking note.”

Arthur laughs a little.

“You don’t realize, do you?” he asks. “I’ve missed nearly the whole tour, not just a couple days.”

“What do you mean?” Curt asks. His smile fades as a nasty thought crosses his mind.

Arthur looks at him, still biting his lip. Curt can see the flesh reddening.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t know if I should tell you, but you’ve been here almost a week.”

 _Fuck_ , Curt thinks. “No way…”

Arthur fidgets in his chair before giving a jerky nod.

“And you weren’t gonna tell me?”

“I didn’t know if I _should_ ,” Arthur says again, with some fire. It suits him. “And I didn’t know what you’d do, like how you’d react, or - or what you were taking all week; I didn’t want to ask, but I _do_ know what day it is.”

Curt takes a deep breath. If he’d been here all week, he’d have run out of cigarettes and pills, wouldn’t he? And Arthur would have run out of alcohol for him, and food, since they must have been eating something…

 _Yeah,_ Curt thinks. _And we did, and he’s been too busy keeping me alive to grocery shop._

“Shit,” Curt mutters. “Are you sure you’re not just saying that?”

Arthur’s face twists into a look of pain - all the answer Curt needs.

“No,” Arthur says, without realizing that it’s superfluous. “I wouldn’t; you can trust me. I just - I know I missed all the Flaming Creatures shows this week, and I’m not sure they’ll still want me.”

 _And we’re back to apologetic and soft and adoring_ , Curt thinks. He wishes he could fall for Arthur. Arthur’s hardly even pissed at him, despite having good reason to be. He couldn’t possibly put Curt or anyone through the ringer the way Brian has: he wouldn’t have it in him. _Then again, Brian was soft like that, once._ He pushes the thought back, wondering if he caught Arthur on the phone right when he was about to leave for Oxford or wherever with the band. Curt hopes so. He hopes  _someone_ put him first, even if it was only Arthur.

“Well,” Curt goes on, unsure what he should say or do or feel, “don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t leave you high and dry, if anything bad happens.”

This would be a good time to ask Arthur to come with him, except that Curt’s so fucking pathetic - apparently he hasn’t even showered in a week - and it’s weird, thinking about someone else so soon after losing Brian. Besides, he doesn’t know how serious Arthur is about whoever he’s living with. Idly, Curt wonders who it is, whether it’s Malcolm or What’s-His-Face, who Curt remembers as _particularly_ flaming - not that it matters. 

He forces a laugh.

“I’d still like for him to walk in when I’m in the middle of fucking you,” he teases, as if he were his old self again.

Arthur hangs his head. Curt shrugs.

“Fine,” he says. “I guess it’s not as funny to you as it is to me. Never mind, if you’re not into it.”

“Thanks,” Arthur murmurs, gratefully.  

Curt reaches for Arthur’s hand. Curt wants to kiss him, but finds himself hesitating still, his throat tight and itching. He needs a cigarette before he can do anything else, he decides, reaching for the pack in his pocket. It’s not there.

“Shit - I left my cigarettes in the bedroom…”

“I’ll get them,” Arthur offers. Curt shakes his head.

“You’re not room service,” he says. Arthur’s frown deepens. Curt wonders if Arthur’s worried about him being able to stand and walk around without keeling over, so he strokes Arthur’s hand, and adds, “I’m _fine._ Really. You make us some of that famous toast, okay?”

A faint smile pulls at Arthur’s lips. “Okay.”

Curt smiles, too. “Then _I’ll_ make coffee. And -” Jesus, he’s been an idiot today - “I must have my wallet somewhere. I took a cab here…”

He stands up. If he has his wallet, he can pay for another cab and send Arthur to get some things from his old apartment without having to go there himself and break down thinking about Brian. Maybe they could even get a hotel, to keep things from getting awkward for Arthur. First, though, Curt’s going to pretend he’s a functional human being, and drink some coffee and take a shower. He’ll invite Arthur to join him, and try not to imagine he’s fucking Brian under the warm water instead, though he’ll probably fail at that part.

“I’ll lend you money if you need groceries - or a new TV before your boyfriend gets home.”

Arthur laughs.

“He’s not really my boyfriend,” he says, which is good to know. _Maybe he_ would _put me first_ , Curt thinks, relaxing. He has no idea where he’ll be in a few days, let alone a few weeks, but he’d like to keep Arthur with him as long as he can, while he tries to forget Brian.

**Author's Note:**

> This may have run away from your prompt, but I hope you enjoy it just the same and hope it wasn't too depressing for Yuletide (or too heavy on the drug use). As always, all my respect for the real figures, living or departed, on whom Velvet Goldmine's characters are (however loosely) based.


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